


Punishment and Misfortune

by ficbear



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Collars, Cutting, Dildos, Dom/sub, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Group Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Painplay, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Scratching, Statue Sex, Swords & Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rage and despair and longing wash over him, soaking him through with irresistible need. He knows where he must go, now. He can turn nowhere else; there is only one man alive who can give him what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment and Misfortune

The scythes drag across the floor as he walks, and the three figures ahead of him seem to relish the sound. They look like vultures anticipating a meal, and even behind those masks Mitsuhide can tell their eyes are sharp and hungry. They stand their ground, and he moves toward them inch by inch like a creeping frost, feeling the heat of arousal spreading through his flesh even before he's laid a finger on them.

"Our lord knew you'd come." The first figure brandishes his spear, pointing its tip toward Mitsuhide.

"We are forbidden to kill you outright," the second says as he follows suit, "but beyond that…"

The third speaks with his gaze fixed on the edge of his blade. "You are ours to play with."

Delight grips Mitsuhide, and he surges towards them with arms outstretched and scythes aloft. To be met with such enthusiasm, to be welcomed with bloodlust that shimmers like a faint reflection of his own, is truly heartening. As ultimately futile as their threats are, Mitsuhide cannot help but admire their passion. The blades of the trio stroke across his flesh, light and quick like a teasing lover's touch, slicing through his hair, his robes, his skin. Tattered cloth whips around him like dust on the wind, and his blood dapples the floor.

"We will wear you down," the nearest of them says. "We will deliver you to our lord's feet," the second follows, and the third smiles as he continues, "beaten and compliant, as helpless as a kitten."

"Come, then!"  Mitsuhide cries, swinging his scythes toward them.

The blades find their mark with ease, and the trio curse him as he slashes at their armour, their masks, and the few stretches of bare flesh they offer him. Their hands follow the path of their own blades, and soon Mitsuhide's skin is hot with their touch. His blood mingles with theirs over the contours of his body, over his chest and stomach, replacing his fallen robes with streaks of glistening red. They drag him down to the floor, anchoring him with tight fingers gripping his limbs and hair, and compete to drive the loudest cry from his lips. Nails like claws sink into his flesh, and those rough hands stroke and squeeze him greedily. How long has it been since his body has felt the bliss of harsh hands upon it?  Every bit of him yearns for abuse, and Mitsuhide cries out raggedly in pleasure as their fingers push inside him, wet and unyielding, forcing his flesh to accept their invasion.

"Louder," the man on top of him demands, twisting his fingers viciously inside Mitsuhide. "Let our lord hear your cries."

"Ah, how frightening!" He laughs richly, arching beneath them. "If only someone would save me!"

The provocation urges the trio on, and they set about him with vicious enthusiasm. The scent of familiar incense is heavy on their skin, and Mitsuhide breathes it in deeply, eager to feel its effects. How long has it been since that scent held his body in its grip? How long since that purple mist subsumed him, piercing him through with its shards of lust? Mitsuhide moans at the thought, and as if spurred on by the sound, the leader of the trio finally kneels between his thighs and pushes forward, taking him at last in one rough thrust. The incense is just beginning to colour his senses as the second of the trio begins to fuck his mouth, and the taste of the hard cock forcing its way into his throat seems all the sharper now that his flesh is in the grip of the drug. He swallows it easily, accommodating both men with little more than a groan of discomfort.

The need for more burns brightly inside him, and as the third of the trio slips beneath him, Mitsuhide gives a stifled moan of delight. Rough hands curl around his shaft, and the third man's cock slides against his own, grinding and rubbing at him until all Mitsuhide can feel is hard flesh inside and against him. The rhythm they set is brisk and unforgiving, and the hard slam of muscle against muscle fills his body with hunger that cannot be sated, with each thrust only making him yearn for a deeper, harder, more brutal touch. Mitsuhide devours their attentions like a fire consuming its fuel, insatiable and tireless, and his touch overwhelms the trio before he is even halfway to his goal. The one fucking his mouth is the first to succumb, surprised and incensed by his own weakness, cursing Mitsuhide bitterly as he comes. The groans of the first seem to drag along the second of the trio, and this one cries out as if wounded as his come spills across Mitsuhide's skin, smearing and pooling between them. The third follows close behind, raking his nails along Mitsuhide's back as he thrusts forward one last time. The three of them are spent within moments of each other, as if the sensations of one are shared by all; to his displeasure, Mitsuhide that he has exhausted them as easily as if he were dealing with a single man.

"You…" Mitsuhide's face aches with the bitterness of his expression. "You are not enough."

Crawling out from between the three men, he leaves them where they lie. His appetite whetted, Mitsuhide gathers up his scythes and makes his way to the next floor.

 

* * *

 

Red prints of fingers and hands paint his body, curling around the muscles of his legs as if their grip is still upon him. Mitsuhide watches the marks shifting and smudging as he ascends the stairs. They are like shadows against his flesh.

"The Miyoshi delayed you for longer than I expected." A deep, soft voice mocks him. "Are you tired, Akechi Mitsuhide? Do you long for rest?"

The room is dark with purple incense, and Mitsuhide breathes in the scent of it deeply. Light glints like sparks of flame on the gold detail of Matsunaga's robes, drawing Mitsuhide closer as if he were a moth circling a flame.

"You…" Mitsuhide says, his voice low and soft. "You can give me what I need."

The older man laughs, and knocks Mitsuhide aside with an effortless sweep of his hand. "Is that so?"

The blow does little to discourage Mitsuhide. He approaches Matsunaga again and again, and each time the older man swats him away,. Neither retreating nor attacking, Matsunaga seems intent on simply holding Mitsuhide at bay, keeping himself perpetually out of the young man's reach. That infuriating slight smile curls at his lips, silently mocking each of Mitsuhide's advances. Finally the older man seems unable to contain his contempt, and a peal of laughter fills the room, rich with scorn. It's too much. With a ragged howl of frustration, Mitsuhide charges at him with both blades outstretched, intent now on spilling blood and indifferent to whose blood that might be.

Matsunaga catches hold of him easily, closing that dark-gloved hand around Mitsuhide's throat, and lifts the younger man into the air as if he were a flimsy doll. The claws of the glove bite into Mitsuhide's flesh, sweet and sharp, and Matsunaga's gaze fixes him as if it were a searing blade running him through. Choking slowly in the older man's tightening grip, Mitsuhide arches his back and moans out an incoherent plea for more. The pain of the talons cutting into his flesh is just enough to make his cock ache and throb, and he paws at himself clumsily as Matsunaga chokes him, shamelessly displaying his enjoyment. Then, without warning, those tight fingers release their grip. He falls to the floor, landing on his knees heavily enough to make the bruises he carries sing with pain.

"What will it take?" He looks up at the older man, his eyes fierce and hot. "Must I beg?"

The question only earns Matsunaga's laughter.

Mitsuhide continues, not dissuaded in the slightest. "What then-"

The kick Matsunaga delivers is faster than anything a man his age should be capable of, and harder than any blow Mitsuhide has taken in the days since Nobunaga's demise. The air rushes from the younger man's lungs and pain blazes through his stomach. He doubles over, giving a choked little groan of approval as he braces himself against the floor; the sound becomes an outright moan when he feels the weight of Matsunaga's boot on his back, pushing him down firmly. Squirming beneath the older man's foot, Mitsuhide pushes back just to feel the unforgiving hardness of that boot against his skin. Inflamed and shameless, he slips a hand down to stroke himself, gripping the shaft of his cock with a grip as firm and cruel as the foot on his back.

"Quite irrepressible, aren't you?" Matsunaga says quietly, as if he were talking to himself.

Firm hands close around Mitsuhide's wrists, and in moments the younger man's arms are bound tightly behind his back. The rough caress of rope around his wrists, and the cool touch of leather being buckled into place around his throat, only urges Mitsuhide on. He arches and pulls against his bonds, shivering in pleasure as the rope begins to cut into his flesh.

"Don't mistake me for the Demon King, boy." The older man drags Mitsuhide upright by the hair, and draws his sword once more. "You're not in Gifu Castle now."

Drunk on pain and desire, and scarcely heeding the warning, Mitsuhide murmurs in delight as the edge of the blade comes to rest under his chin. It strokes slowly across his throat, just firmly enough to break the skin and open up another hot, stinging wound. Pain blossoms along the curve of Mitsuhide's neck like a trail of kisses, and as Matsunaga pulls the blade away, the younger man can't resist leaning forward to lick at the bloodied metal. Its tang is bitter and warm against his tongue, and the taste drives a deep moan of pleasure from his lips.

"A passable note." Sheathing the sword, Matsunaga holds the younger man's gaze steadily and begins the pull the white glove from his right hand. "But you're capable of far more than that."

Mitsuhide watches, held still somehow by the sight, and barely has time to react when the older man moves around to stand behind him, circling him as quickly as a swooping hawk. Matsunaga's still-gloved hand seizes his throat, sinking those claws viciously into Mitsuhide's flesh as he hauls the younger man to his feet.

"Such unusual tastes…" Running his free hand along the wounds criss-crossing Mitsuhide's chest, Matsunaga daubs his fingers with blood, and brings them up to the younger man's lips. "And so unquenchable."

Mitsuhide sucks hungrily at the fingers invading his mouth, lapping away each smear of blood, until all he can taste is the older man's flesh. Suddenly those fingers withdraw, leaving his mouth empty, and the hand gripping his throat abruptly releases its hold. Mitsuhide falls to his knees again, and this time Matsunaga leaves him no time to react before a length of cold silk slips down over his eyes, plunging him rapidly into darkness. Matsunaga's movements had impossible to avoid or predict even when the younger man had him in full view; now, with his sight taken, Mitsuhide has no chance at all. A sudden tug on the collar drags him to his feet, and he finds himself being led by the throat. The floor seems to change under his feet, becoming smoother and warmer, and the air around him is heavier now with that heady incense. He breathes in the scent greedily, letting it fill his lungs until he can almost taste the sweetness of it on his tongue. His body aches to be touched and tormented, so that every movement of his limbs sends a pang of need through his flesh. The pain of his wounds seems keener than ever now, and the insistent taut heat of his arousal burns and throbs with every step he takes. Perhaps the darkness engulfing him has sharpened his senses, or perhaps the incense is the culprit; whatever the case, he embraces the sensation wholeheartedly, pulling against his bonds and tensing his bruised muscles just to feel that sweet, crisp pain again.

A hard shove sends Mitsuhide stumbling forward, and he lurches heavily into something smooth, cold and hard. At first the young man assumes some sturdy piece of furniture, some monstrous altar or looming throne, has broken his fall. Then his body brushes against the contours of the thing beside him, and Mitsuhide realises at once what it must be. The fragrant wood pressed against his skin as carved in the image of someone  – or of something loosely human, at least. Perhaps a statue of his former lord? Or is Matsunaga vain enough to keep a likeness of himself to toy with?

"Kneel." Matsunaga orders softly, and the hands he lays on Mitsuhide's shoulders make refusal impossible.

Those inescapable hands tangle in the young man's hair, shoving his head forward roughly until something cool and almost flesh-like brushes against Mitsuhide's cheek. The scent of the leather is rich and deep, and he parts his lips without a moment's hesitation. The shape of the toy is unmistakeable once its head weighs heavily against his tongue, once that its shaft stretches his lips and the tang of its leather fills his mouth. He pushes forward, eager to test how much of that shaft he can take, how close to his limits the toy will push him. Working his lips down along the length of it, Mitsuhide takes more and more of that firm leather rod, until the head of it is buried in his throat and his mouth is full of the shaft of it. As he strains to take another inch, there is another hard tug on his collar, and the solid sound of a lock being fastened. An attempt to move back confirms the young man's suspicions; he is chained into place now, with only a few inches leave to move either way.

He can hear Matsunaga's footsteps receding, and then silence surrounds him. His own shallow breathing and the steady thrumming of his pulse are all he can hear. Has the older man grown tired of him and left? Impossible. He dismisses the idea immediately; Matsunaga would not leave a task half-done. No, the older man is still there, silently watching him. He can _feel_ Matsunaga's gaze lingering on each and every detail of the scene, on his bound and collared form, on his bare, bloodied flesh, on his lips, stretched and slick around the shaft of the statue's cock. The whole scene is laid out for the older man's pleasure, and Mitsuhide can clearly imagine the quiet smile of satisfaction on Matsunaga's face as he watches, distant and frustratingly out of reach.

Without warning, a hand seizes hold of Mitsuhide's hair, driving a muffled gasp from his lips. That cruel hand pushes him down, roughly and inescapably, until his forehead brushes against the statue's abdomen. How much colder, how much more unyielding than human flesh it is! Mitsuhide groans against the leather filling his throat, swallowing as much as he can, revelling in the exquisite harshness of its touch. Pulling against the rope around his wrists, he rains curses on the bonds that keep his hands fastened well away from the once place that cries out for their touch. If only he could slip a hand free, if only he could reach down just for a moment and let his fingers stroke along the length of his aching, neglected flesh. He groans in frustration, pushing back against the hand on his neck, and the sound is met by Matsunaga's soft, scornful laughter.

"You struggle well, boy." The older man says, his voice rich with cruelty. "But you can do better."

Cool, wet fingers trail along the cleft of his ass, and each inch of flesh those fingers touch seems to be set alight with sensation; Mitsuhide recognises the feeling well, and smiles to himself as the oil begins to do its work. Matsunaga's fingers slip easily inside him, spreading that blazing pleasure deeper with every push and slide of the older man's hand. Soon enough, Mitsuhide can feel those knuckles pressed firmly against him, those long fingers stirring deep inside him, imposing their touch on every sensitive inch of flesh. Matsunaga's hand moves roughly and quickly now, driving shudder after shudder of pleasure through Mitsuhide's body, filling the room with the sound of those oiled fingers plunging again and again into the young man's ass. Mitsuhide only wants more. His flesh burns sweetly wherever the oil touches it, and soon his limbs are weak and shaking with lust.

With another cruel chuckle, Matsunaga withdraws his fingers. The sudden emptiness is unbearable, and Mitsuhide pushes back desperately, as if he can somehow keep the older man's touch by chasing it. It's no use, though. The chain still binds him in place, and Matsunaga's hand remains out of reach. All the he can do is moan helplessly against the leather shaft still filling his mouth, and hope that the older man's lust will overcome his patience.

Soft fabric brushes against Mitsuhide's rear, and he tenses with anticipation. His whole body is crying out for satisfaction, burning with the need to be taken and broken, and his moans become a fierce growl of desire as the older man's cock sinks into him at last. Matsunaga impales him in one stroke, easily forcing Mitsuhide's well-oiled flesh to accept him, and in moments the young man is trembling under the onslaught of hard, vicious thrusts. It drives the breath from him, turns his groans to choking gasps, forces from his mind every thought except the need to be fucked. Lust makes him little more than a beast now, and he revels in it. Pushing back as much as the chain will allow, he shifts and squirms against the older man, desperate to take as much of that hard shaft as he can reach with each thrust of his hips.

Matsunaga abruptly pauses, holding still for a moment, withdrawing all but the last few inches of his cock. A ragged, shameless howl of need flows from Mitsuhide's throat, as if it were someone else's voice, as if instinct alone controls him now. The sound seems to please Matsunaga; slamming in to the hilt again, he fucks the young man harder now than ever, as if he means to tear Mitsuhide in two. Each movement is pure cruelty, pure selfish desire, and Mitsuhide has never felt more like a mere plaything. He is a toy to be used and enjoyed, just another an object kept for Matsunaga's amusement, as much of a curio as the statute before him. The thought only excites Mitsuhide more.

With a faint groan of pleasure, Matsunaga seizes a handful of the young man's hair, shoving his head down so that his throat is impaled to its absolute limit on the thick shaft of the statue's cock, forcing him to take yet more until his eyes are watering and his cheeks are wet with tears. Mitsuhide chokes around it, swallowing desperately, and each spasm of discomfort sends a jolt of pleasure rippling down through the rest of his body. Breath can barely reach him now, but Mitsuhide hardly cares. Even if it exhausts him, even if it breaks him utterly, this pleasure must be pursued to the very end.

Matsunaga laughs softly. "Well, then…"

The claws run along the edge of Mitsuhide's bound wrists, and immediately the rope gives way. That Matsunaga can restrain and free him with equal speed only heightens the young man's arousal, and he hurriedly reaches down beneath himself, impatient to finally seize the pleasure he has been chasing all night. Barely half a dozen strokes is all it takes to reach the precipice, and as he comes, Mitsuhide's voice is raw and ragged with need. Moans of pain and snarls of pleasure fill the room, underlaid by the insistent slamming of flesh against flesh, until the last drop of satisfaction is wrung from Mitsuhide's body.

"I wonder…" A sudden sharp tug on the collar frees him; the chain falls to the ground with a clatter, and Mitsuhide is wrenched upright by the hair, pulled back against him in what might, from a gentler man, have been an embrace. Matsunaga's lips are close to the young man's ear, his voice low and heavy with pleasure. "How many times can a rare wine be tasted before its flavour grows bland and displeasing?"

The clawed glove brushes against Mitsuhide's temple, easily pushing the blindfold aside and flooding the young man's vision with dazzling candlelight. For the briefest moment Mitsuhide's eyes drink in what glimpses of the scene it can steal - the severe face of the statue looming over him, the glittering artefacts scattered around the room's many surfaces, the spattered come glistening on the floor below him – before that gloved hand settles over the young man's face and darkness swallows him again. Tipping his head back, Mitsuhide gives himself up to the strange sensation of it, of the swirling darkness that seems to be surging out of him and into the glove's tight grasp. It's enough to drive another murmur of pleasure from him, but the sound is distant and weak, easily drowned out Matsunaga's own voice. The older man's groan of satisfaction fills Mitsuhide's ears, digging into him as sharply as the claws gripping his face, as deeply as the hard flesh buried in his ass, as overpowering as the flood of heat inside him. Mitsuhide smiles beneath the glove's stifling grip, and surrenders.

 

* * *

 

Rain beats against his face. He opens his eyes slowly, and moves each bruised limb carefully as he pushes himself upright. The fall from the cliff's edge was long, it seems, and would have been enough to kill a different man. But he still lives, he is still here – here alone, he realises. The crown is gone. Mitsuhide is alone with the rain and the cold, grey night. He could laugh, or cry. Mitsunari had intended to take his life, and instead, by chance, has taken from him a much more precious prize. Rage and despair and longing wash over him, soaking him through with irresistible need. He knows where he must go, now. He can turn nowhere else; there is only one man alive who can give him what he needs.


End file.
